


To a strange night of stone

by rosa_himmelblau



Series: The Roadhouse Blues [19]
Category: Wiseguy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:40:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26027362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosa_himmelblau/pseuds/rosa_himmelblau
Summary: And on the flip side, things aren't any better.
Series: The Roadhouse Blues [19]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1069713





	To a strange night of stone

Four o'clock in the morning, and Sonny was wide awake. He'd never needed much sleep—four or five hours a night until a few years ago, when he'd started sleeping an extra hour or two—unless something was bothering him.

The something bothering him was sleeping in the next room.

Vinnie wasn't happy, and Sonny couldn't figure out why. He didn't like the traveling around, but he didn't seem to want to stay in one place, either. The only thing he really seemed to want to do was sleep.

In the first incarnation of their relationship, Sonny had alternately thought Vinnie was baffling, and a dream come true. Now he'd figured out that that was mostly Vinnie being a cop. He'd run full throttle into the most dangerous situations because he had the fucking feds backing him up, so that part Sonny could discount—Vinnie wasn't nuts. But sometimes he had this squeamishness that wasn't just a fed's unwillingness to do things he'd later have to admit to in court. That was the thing, the thing Aiuppo had said—he lives by the rules of his heart. It was something Sonny had never seen before.

In Sonny's experience, there were three kinds of cops, and they weren't any different from anyone else. There were the cops you could buy, the cops you couldn't buy because they were too scared of getting caught, and the cops you couldn't buy because they thought they were too good for your money. They all had one thing in common, though—they all **wanted** the money. It was the last group that was the most dangerous, because they were the most pissed off. You had money, they didn't, and that made them furious.

But Vinnie didn't seem to fit into any of those categories, because he had no interest in money, he had no interest in **stuff** in general, unless you counted that piece of shit car he was in love with. He had no interest in living better. Just what **did** Vinnie want, that was the question. 

Sonny had always known Vinnie was temperamental, complicated, high-maintenance, but he was worth it, even if Sonny sometimes wondered why he was worth it. All Sonny was sure of was that Vinnie made him feel good. Given a choice, he wanted Vinnie around.

The sex had been a mistake.

Sonny knew that, he'd always known it, right from the very first time he stuck his hand in Vinnie's pants. It was a mistake, and it would ruin them.

Of course, it hadn't, but that was only because Vinnie being a cop had brought things crashing down first. Still, the sex had been a mistake.

And Sonny couldn't exactly explain why he kept doing it. The kissing was OK, they could've survived the kissing without any problem. But for some reason, the kissing wasn't enough. Sonny wanted more, more of Vinnie, **all** of Vinnie, and Vinnie would get all worked up, and God, Sonny loved that, he loved Vinnie all out of control and wanting **him** to take care of it for him. He wouldn't ask—he wasn't that stupid—but the way he kissed back told Sonny not to stop with just the kissing, and the way he looked, God, Sonny could see it in the dark. That look said everything.

The truth was—and Sonny had never told anybody this—sex just wasn't that important to him. Oh, yeah, it felt good, and if you could just do it and get on with your life, that'd be fine. But it took so long! Not the act itself, but everything you had to do to get there. Dinner, a movie, that was fine, it wasn't wasted time—after all, you had to eat, and Sonny liked movies—but the pretending to be enthralled with the girl you were trying to make—that just numbed his brain. He liked the hunt—except for the actual fucking, that was the best part of sex—but most of the time trying to get a girl into bed seemed more like an exercise in diplomacy, or politics, or both, making sure you said just the right words in just the right way, showing the proper respect, following the rules. Sonny had discovered early that he'd rather just do it himself than go through the slow wooing it usually took to get some action. 

Of course when the sexual revolution hit, girls got easier, and when Mack set him up with the Royal Diamond, easy became effortless. Getting laid was as uncomplicated as ordering dinner, and that wasn't because of the pros in the casino. Women loved power, and the same woman you couldn't get to smile at you was suddenly all over you when she found out you ran the joint. It saved a lot of time.

So, really, there shouldn't have been a problem, right? And there hadn't been, except for Vinnie. Why should Vinnie's hand feel so much better there than his own did? At least some of it was that it was Vinnie, and Vinnie had him memorized, and he loved that. Yeah. Vinnie had him memorized. That was what really felt good.

But it didn't matter if fooling around with Vinnie felt good, it was still a mistake. It was getting Vinnie all confused. He didn't seem to understand that what they were doing wasn't anything, really, it didn't— It didn't **count**. Vinnie was reading too much into it, and that's probably why he starting to think he was a fag.

Sonny had been trying to head this off. He'd been bringing home the girls partly to avoid temptation, but also so Vinnie could see for himself that he obviously wasn't queer. But the way Vinnie took things to heart, he didn't get it.

Or.

Sonny got up and walked quietly into Vinnie's room, where Vinnie was sleeping. He looked at him there for a minute, what there was of him to see. He had the covers wrapped around him like a cocoon.

Or maybe Vinnie really was a fag.

Sonny went over to the window and looked out at the darkness and thought about that. He couldn't deny that it was disappointing, Vinnie maybe being a fag—shit, he was already a cop, wasn't that bad enough? But there were advantages to it. At least he was good at it, and a blow-job first thing in the morning was something to look forward to. And whether he knew it or not, Vinnie was fucking gorgeous, especially when he had Sonny's dick in his mouth. And should anything happen, at least Vinnie had a marketable skill. If he wanted to be a fag, well, Sonny could learn to live with that.

Sonny turned away from the window to look back at Vinnie. He loved Vinnie, loved him helplessly, and he wanted to see him happy, make him happy, but he didn't know how to make that happen. He bought Vinnie clothes he didn't wear, jewelry he couldn't care less about, took him places he didn't seem to want to go . . . Sonny really didn't know where he **did** want to go, except back to a life that didn't exist anymore, and nobody could arrange that.

As usual when he looked at Vinnie for very long, Sonny had to touch him. Vinnie was either asleep, or pretending to be—and that was another thing Sonny didn't understand. Sleeping your life away was a big enough waste of time, but **pretending** to be asleep? That was just weird, and Vinnie'd done it more times than he could count.

Still, pretending to sleep worked the same for Sonny as really sleeping. He got in bed with Vinnie, wrapping his arms around him, sliding one hand up under Vinnie's T-shirt to feel his skin, to feel his heart beating. Sonny wouldn't have minded sleeping like that every night, but it was impractical. Vinnie was already so fucked up and confused about things, and it was one thing, Vinnie sucking him off in the morning, that didn't really mean anything, and kissing him was—

OK, yeah, kissing Vinnie was something he wasn't supposed to do, but there were lots of things you weren't supposed to do that didn't matter as long as nobody found out about 'em. But that was the thing—Vinnie had told people. He'd told Aiuppo, at least, and Pooch, and probably that fucking McPike he was pining for.

So, Sonny was careful. He wouldn't let Vinnie sit on his bed, and if they had to share, Vinnie had to stay on his own side. It was a matter of principle, since Vinnie had blabbed to Aiuppo. And Sonny couldn't sleep in Vinnie's bed every night without risking confusing him and getting him started talking again. Sonny could not understand how Vinnie could not know that there were some things you just don't talk about. You'd think that between him being an undercover cop and a fag, he'd get that, but no.

It was starting to get light out. Pretty soon it would be time to get up and go to the gym for their work out. Sonny had yet to find a foolproof way to get Vinnie out of bed, but he usually woke up pretty well if he was petted enough. No problem there; that was something Sonny really enjoyed doing. 

Vinnie was still pretending to be asleep, but he wasn't doing as good a job at it, squirming against Sonny. "Vinnie," Sonny murmured. "Baby. You awake?"

"No," Vinnie mumbled. "Go away." But he turned over, facing Sonny.

Sonny kissed him, his hand going back to Vinnie's crotch, his tongue sliding into Vinnie's mouth. Vinnie kissed him back, though it wasn't with much enthusiasm, and in a few minutes he pulled away. "It's the middle of the night. What do you want?"

Sonny kissed him again, feeling Vinnie sigh. It was going to be one of those days, where he dragged around like his dog had just died. Sonny hated days like that, and he was tempted to just let Vinnie sleep it away, but what good would that do? Instead he kept kissing him, even though all he could think about was that he wished Vinnie would fucking **shave** without having to be practically held down in a barber's chair. Maybe that's what they'd do today, they'd find a place to get Vinnie cleaned up.

"Fuck this," Vinnie said, jerking away from Sonny, sitting up. "C'm'on, let's do it." He got off the bed, pulled Sonny to his feet, knelt in front of him.

"What're you doing?" Sonny asked, puzzled by this sudden energy.

"C'm'on," Vinnie repeated, "put it in my mouth." He couldn't have sounded less enthusiastic, and Sonny couldn't figure out what was the matter with him. He **wanted** to do this, so why should it put him such a pissy mood?

"C'm'on, it doesn't have to be like this," Sonny said gently, tangling his fingers in Vinnie's hair. "We're in no hurry here—"

"I am," Vinnie said, reaching for Sonny, and Sonny nearly told him to forget it, if he didn't feel like doing it, why should—

But Vinnie's mouth on him pretty much erased any urge to talk. He had, Sonny thought, a very talented mouth.

He wasn't sure exactly what Vinnie was doing, something different, something that felt really nice, and whatever it was, Sonny couldn't hold off for very long—

He sat down hard on the bed the minute Vinnie let go of him, feeling really good, and he was reaching for Vinnie when Vinnie climbed on the bed with him and kissed him, and Sonny was starting to think it was going to be a pretty good day since Vinnie seemed to be in a good mood and wouldn't require prodding and nagging to get him moving—

Vinnie shoved him back on the bed and climbed on top of him, straddling him and kissing him, sticking his tongue in Sonny's mouth, which was nice until Sonny realized that Vinnie was spitting Sonny's come into his mouth.

Sonny tried to shove Vinnie off him, but he'd put enough weight back on to make that about impossible, so finally Sonny just bit him, which for some reason made Vinnie **laugh,** what the fuck was he **laughing** about? 

"What the fuck are you **doing**?" And then Sonny pushed him, hard enough to throw him on the floor, but the son-of-a-bitch was still laughing. Sonny resisted the urge to kick him as he stepped over him on his way to the bathroom to brush his teeth.

When he'd done that—twice—and used the toilet, he came back out. Vinnie was still lying on the floor, still laughing. "What the hell is the matter with you?" Sonny asked. Vinnie got up, far enough away from Sonny to be out of reach, which Sonny figured was probably deliberate. Sonny would have to come to him to hit him, but that was OK. "What the fuck is **wrong** with you?!"

"What's the big deal? You expect me to swallow it every fucking morning, and smile, like you're offering me the nectar of the gods—so what's **your** problem, huh?"

**Expect,** like any of this had been his idea, like Vinnie hadn't **offered** , like this wasn't what Vinnie **wanted** — Sonny moved in to swing on him, but Vinnie backed away.

"Well? C'm'on, what's the big deal? You act like I poisoned you or something—"

Sonny rushed him, hit him hard in the mouth, then in the stomach, slamming him against the wall while Vinnie punched back. He didn't know what was wrong with Vinnie, he didn't care, he just wanted to bang his head on the floor 'til he was bleeding from the ears—

"I'm tired of you using me, of your expecting me to roll over every time you've got an itch!" Somehow this penetrated, caught Sonny's attention, and Sonny backhanded him as hard as he could.

"What're you talking about, using you? This was your idea, but you act like I'm molesting you!" Sonny hadn't even known he felt like that until he heard the words coming out of his mouth, and then he realized that Vinnie didn't want him touching him, he didn't like it. He punched Vinnie again, knocking him down, then he went back into the bathroom and slammed the door, feeling sick.

Sonny was splashing cold water on his face when he heard the front door open and close. When he came out, Vinnie was gone.

Sonny just stood looking at the empty room. It was a small house—two bedrooms, a living room, a kitchenette, a bathroom, and all of them empty.

It wasn't going to be a good day.

Sonny went back in the bathroom and brushed his teeth again, shaved, combed his hair. He went back to his room and got dressed, in no hurry. There was nothing there he really needed, nothing he even very much wanted. He put on his favorite jeans, his nicest sweater, the soft black vicuna one Vinnie had bought him for Christmas last year, found his wallet. Everything else was replaceable, except for Vinnie. Sonny put on his shoes and walked out the front door. He had been right; the sex was going to destroy them.

Vinnie was sitting in the car, hammering his fists on the steering wheel. Sonny ignored him. What difference did it make what Vinnie was doing? He was leaving.

Sonny went over and got in the car. At least the door wasn't locked.

"What do you want?" Vinnie asked.

"Where're you going?"

"No place, the fucking alternator's out, the battery's dead, I told you we needed a new alternator—" Vinnie started to get out of the car, but Sonny put his hand on Vinnie's arm to stop him, pulled it back immediately.

"You don't wanna be with me, there's no law says you gotta be." Vinnie didn't say anything, he just turned the key again, and the starter clicked, but nothing else happened. "What the hell do you want? I didn't **ask** you to do this, you know. It was **your** idea!" He thought, but didn’t add—he didn’t know why he didn’t add— **I thought you liked doing it!**

"You didn't you notice I was **sleeping**?"

Sonny rolled his eyes. "Vinnie. You're **always** sleeping! If I didn't wake you up, you'd spend your whole fucking life in bed. And I got news for you, pal, Sleeping Beauty, you ain't."

"That doesn't mean I want you to wake me up every morning!"

"You don't want me to wake you up in the mornings—at all? Or just for that? Because you get pretty fucking cranky if you sleep through breakfast. I'm not your alarm clock, you know. You don't want me waking you up, that's fine, but the next time you're stumbling outta bed at four in the afternoon, you better not complain to me about it."

Vinnie wasn't saying anything.

_What's the matter with you?_ "You don't wanna swallow? Don't swallow. Jesus." Vinnie still didn't say anything.

"You don't want to do it anymore? Yeah, OK, sure, fine, it was your idea in the first place—" Again he reached over to touch Vinnie's shoulder; again he pulled his hand away, this time before he made contact. "Come on back in the house."

"I don't want— No."

Sonny had his wallet in his pocket. He could just get out of the car and walk away. "You want to go someplace else, someplace neutral?"

"What could be more neutral than that place?" Vinnie looked at the little house they'd only been living in for about a month.

"So where do you want to go?"

"I don't know. I don't care."

"No kidding. You don't care about anything, you don't want me to touch you." Sonny opened the car door. 

"It's not that."

"Yeah. Sure." He got out of the car, leaned back in. "Come on back in the house."

"What for?"

"I don't know what for! To sleep, that's what you spend your time doing, right?"

"Go away," Vinnie said, and to Sonny he sounded like a kid, a tired kid who'd just thrown a blow-out of a temper tantrum. Maybe he was unhappy because he didn't like being queer.

"Come on back in the house, I'll make you some breakfast before you go back to bed."

He slammed the car door and went back inside. He had no intention of letting Vinnie go back to bed. If he had to, he'd pick a fight with him, get him mad enough to take a swing at him, because Vinnie angry was better than Vinnie torpid; he was more alive. And Vinnie punching him was better than Vinnie skittering away from his touch; touching Vinnie was always better than not touching him, and who cared about bruises, anyway?


End file.
